Blood Brothers

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Elevators

While leaving work the other evening, I began to pontificate upon another topic which we typically overlook due to its common presence: elevators. I bet you can't tell where I was when I began said pontification. Oh? You guessed in an elevator? Damn. Okay, maybe you can. That aside, I'll be spending the next few paragraphs enlightening you about elevators: the good, the bad, and maybe a story or two. I think we should start with my general distaste for elevators. I know they are useful, especially in buildings with more than four floors. I work on the eleventh floor of my office building, but there are many times I find myself wishing we had a staircase. Here are my main complaints with elevators:

Picking which one will open first

This only applies in buildings with more than one elevator. You go and hit the button to go up or down, and there are two or more elevators that respond to the button, and you stand there trying to guess which door will open. This is even more awkward when other people are waiting for you, and exceptionally awkward when there are more people trying to get on the elevator than can fit. Then, if you guess wrong, you're shit-out-of-luck.

The latecomer

Whenever you are in a hurry to get somewhere via elevator, there is inevitably somebody at the end of the hallway yelling, "Hold the elevator, please! I'm almost there!" So everyone in the elevator must wait on this asshole who thinks they're so important that they can't be bothered to wait another 30 seconds for the next elevator. One day I was walking into work when I saw an ancient relic of a woman shuffling at a blazing two feet per minute into my building. She had an aide with her, and I passed them to go inside. I got to the elevator, hit the "up" button and waited. It took a bit longer than normal for one of the three elevators that go above the tenth floor to arrive down in the lobby. I went in, along with several other people. Right before the door closes, an arm shoots into the gap with the righteous speed of a caretaker of the elderly and decrepit. "Please wait, she's almost here," I hear the aide say. Everyone in the elevator had seen the osteoporotic dinosaur, and I was surprised that the aide didn't burst into flame right there from the concentrated amount of hate being directed towards her by my fellow elevator occupants.

Yes, hatred is combustible.

"Please be patient, we'll all be there some day." The bimbo had the nerve not only to patronize us, but also to remind us of the fleeting nature of youth right before we all went to waste yet another day of our lives stuck in an office. We stood in the elevator for literally two minutes while we waited for the old woman who avoiding the grim reaper by the skin of her false teeth. It was infuriating; nobody said anything, nobody even gave telling glances to one another or the aide, who continued to condescend to us as if we weren't being patient enough. She wouldn't stop talking down to us about being patient, which is like Hitler trying to tell Jesus the importance of being a good person. This was the woman who was so impatient she had to hold up an entire elevator so she didn't have to wait for another, even though, I guarantee, at least three more elevators could have come before the fossil made it to the one her aide had commandeered.

Selecting your floor

Once everyone crams into the elevator, everyone tried to squeeze towards the buttons to hit their floor. When it's really crowded, you may hear something akin to, "can you hit eight for me, please?" A reasonable request, except for when I'm going higher than eight. Every stop between where I am and the floor to which I'm going is comparable to sitting in traffic. Worse is when somebody on another floor is waiting for the elevator. The light on that floor doesn't show, but the elevator stops anyway, and half the time when the door opens there is nobody there. Somebody either hit the wrong direction (I understand, the difference between up and down is utterly perplexing) or hit the button just to be an asshole. Oh, and don't even get me started on little kids who think it's a fun game to hit all the buttons in the elevator. I have a fun game I'd like to show them.

My favorite game, followed closely by "Let's play in traffic."

Where the hell am I supposed to look?

Probably one of the most uncomfortable things for me in an elevator is where to look when there are other people in there with you. Most elevators have at least one reflective wall, making it really hard to avoid eye contact with your elevator passengers. Even trying to stare ahead of you, the reflective surface makes it to where you're nearly staring the other passengers in the eye. This is bad, because it becomes painfully obvious that everyone is trying really hard to not interact with anyone else. Then you get the random talkers, who think, because the mirror-wall makes it seem like you're making reflected eye-contact, that it's a good time to bust out conversational gems like, "Hot enough for you outside?" or, "Hey, at least it's Friday," or, "Excuse me, would you mind sucker-punching me in the larynx?"

Okay, I just wish they'd say the last one.

I could probably write a whole thesis paper on the unsavory aspects of elevators, but, instead, I will move on to the one thing I enjoy about elevators. I can only enjoy this when alone in an elevator with hand rails. I find it very amusing to lift myself off the floor using the hand rails and lift myself a few inches several times. I find it oddly fun to feel the g-force fluctuate with the speed and direction of the elevator. I like feeling really heavy when traveling up, with the very end making my body weight seem like nothing as it slows, and vice versa when the elevator travels downward. This reminds me of a story.

I believe it was the winter break of my senior year of high school. A group of aproximately eight of us decided to go to Centennial Olympic Park where they had set up an ice-skating rink. Not wanting to navigate downtown Atlanta traffic, my friends and I decided to take MARTA (Metro Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority, for my imaginary readers unfamiliar with Atlanta). We parked on the third floor of the parking deck and meandered to the elevator. We piled into the elevator, and for shits and giggle, without having consulted anybody about any kind of plan or giving any intentions, when the doors closed I simply said, "One, two, three!" Here is how events unfolded.

In case the pictures weren't clear, on the count of three, everyone in the elevator jumped. We had never done this before, and it's not like anybody had said, "Hey, we should count to three and all jump!" I simply counted to three, and everybody jumped on cue. I was not expecting this. Neither was the elevator. In less than two seconds we went from the third floor to right between the first and second floor. We basically caused the elevator to free fall about ten to fifteen feet before the emergency cables caught us. After we picked ourselves up off the ground, we soon realized what we had done. We tried to open the doors, but we couldn't get them open more than a crack, through which we were able to see the floor/ceiling dividing the first and second floors. After being in there for about fifteen minutes, some of the girls began to panic a little bit. Then, after about half an hour...

Everyone knows human eyes glow in the dark.

Pandemonium. You would have thought we were in a horror movie. Not all the girls went into OMGWTFWE'REGONNADIE mode, but even one is too many. We waited around in the dark for another fifteen minutes or so before the lights came back on, and old mechanic knocked on the door and said he was working to get us out. It was about another fifteen minutes before we emerged from the elevator-turned-Alcatraz. So it was only an hour, nowhere near as bad as it was for this guy, but still not fun. We then took the train to the stop closest to Centennial, walked a few blocks and finally got to the park. There we sat, looked at the skating rink, and, being the spoiled suburban high school kids we were, turned our noses up and refused to pay $10 to skate on it because, "that ice rink is like the size of my garage." I'd like to blame someone else for that condescending comment, but alas, I have not always been as amazingly talented, athletic, sexy, and most of all as humble as I am now.

Jesus Saves

Toast Chee

The e-mail server is down at work. Oh, yeah, I'm no longer unemployed. But if you're reading this, you already know that, don't you? I suppose I hold the hope that one day, in the distant future, somebody who doesn't know me first hand might actually read this blog. So for the sake of this fictional reader, I will provide details that may seem superfluous and/or redundant to anyone who actually might read this. I apologize; let me dream.

The recurring Viking-on-a-unicycle-carrying-a-leprechaun dream.

I could go into detail about what I do at work, but you probably care even less than I do. Suffice it to say that without e-mail, I'm left with pretty much nothing to do and lots of time to kill, hence this post. I've actually got another post or two I've been working on, which somewhat explains my lack of updates, but mostly the reason is that I've been too lazy to draw the pictures for the random crap that I write. So I'm sitting here on my second week of work, crammed into my kindergarten-sized desk, because we have to rearrange the office in order for me to get a real-person desk. You would think that with the e-mail server down and nothing left to do around here we would do said rearranging now, but it hasn't happened. My boss/supervisor/guy-who-is-in-charge-of-rearranging-the-office says that it has something to do with getting phone lines moved or something stupid like that, but I suspect everyone else is doing something more fun, like running an underground turtle racing gambling ring.

On second thought, that doesn't really sound that fun.

So while I wait to get assigned some task that will take me all of five to ten minutes to complete, I've been browsing the vast interwebs. I've gone from the usual entertainment sites, all the way to the uncharted territories unbeknownst even to StumbleUpon. I'm pretty sure by now I'm like the fucking Ferdinand Magellan of the internet. I googled his first name, because I had nothing better to do and it makes me sound smarter. Except I just told you I googled it, so nevermind.

It's time for Wild Wings. As you can tell, not many fucks were given in the making of this drawing. It was the last one.

So now that I've circumnavigated the internet (and I didn't get killed by Lapu-Lapu (I told you I beat the internet). Take that, Magellan!) I've been left to my own devices and deep philsophical contemplations. So far, my most sagacious of observations (I just took another web-voyage and discovered the word "sagacious") has been on the packet of crackers sitting on my desk. They are "Toast Chee Crackers", made with "real Peanut Butter". You know these crackers, if maybe not the exact brand. They're your typical orange crackers with peanut butter.

Yum. Doesn't that image just make your mouth water?

I ate a few, and I began to ponder. Why are they orange?. I've been eating these cracker since I was in pre-school. Well, mostly only when I was in pre-school, but the office and pre-school bear striking resemblances.

Exactly the same, minus the nap time.

But it was really only today that I fully began to theorize as to why they would make a cracker in such an unnatural color. I know of no other crackers that are orange. I just sat and thought for a minute after typing that. Now that I reflect on it, I suppose you could count Cheez-Its,but I don't really count those as crackers. They're sort of their own entity in the munchie world, kind of like slime mold. Plus, Cheez-Its aren't that unnatural neon orange, like what I imagine the radioactive waste looked like that made Chester Cheetah (that's a story for another day), or, coincidentally enough, like Neon. I mean, they don't even taste like cheese! Actually, wait a minute.

Om nom nom. Yeah, I did it. So what?

Yeah, pretty positive I don't taste any cheese. Which again begs the question, why orange? I could understand if the crazy color had some tie to the flavor of the cracker, but I did a thorough study using all four steps of the scientific method, and I have deduced that these crackers do not taste like anything that is naturally orange. So then I wonder, if you're going to make a cracker some random crazy color, why not go all out and make them lime-green, or hot-pink?

Woah, I think they were laced with something.

I could continue reflecting upon the intentions behind my orange crackers, but now there are more pressing matters which require my brilliant contemplation. Like who got to decide what the standard margins are for notepads, and why they come in so many different sizes.

Bald Faced Lie

I don't really have anything to write about this. Maybe I'll think of something clever and turn it into a real post. Maybe this will be gone once I realize it's stupid. Maybe I'll leave it as is. Anyway, the author of this article keeps using the term "Bald faced lie." It's like nails on a chalkboard to my brain. I wanted to just comment on his article to feed that depraved part of me that thrives on pointing out others' stupidity. But that brings me to my other pet peeve (like I only have two): websites where you have to register in order to comment on their articles. I want to make fun of this idiot who thinks that the term "bald faced lie" holds any coherent meaning whatsoever, but first I have to give pcworld.com my life story and e-mail address and put up with their spammy newsletters that I couldn't give two shits about, all just to make someone ashamed of an honestly not so egregious mistake. So instead of being able to spend two seconds to write a sentence or two in order to fill my snide asshole quota for the day, I was forced to come here and type this mediocre rant. Considering it's only my 3rd post (4th if you count that ridiculous two-panel comic), and the other two are more or less rant based, I'm afraid I may be pigeon holing myself as a curmudgeonly ranter. And it's all Rosie D. and Dan "Bald Faced" Tynan's fault.

Maybe later I'll attempt to draw what I think a bald faced lie looks like.

*EDIT - Here is my artistic rendition of a Bald-faced Lie.

**EDIT 2 - As I wipe the egg off my face, I'll inform everyone that apparently bald-faced is the proper saying. It originated from the 18th and 19th centuries, when apparently it was popular for businessmen to wear beards in an attempt to make it harder to tell a lie. Therefore, a bald-faced liar was a very good liar, as he could convince you of a lie without relying on his beard to mask his "tell".

Beatles or Stones?

I've been wondering what to write about all day. I've started on several topics, but nothing seemed to really inspire me to write more than a few sentences. I would like to thank one Rosie D, 27, from Dallas, TX for changing that. She gave the stupidest answer I could possibly imagine to a very simple question. Let me backtrack a bit to give you the proper perspective.

I was lazily sitting in front of the computer, trying to feel inspired to write something. And by trying to feel inspired, I mean wasting my time on StumbleUpon. I was directed to DonQ's LadyData. This website "gather[s] unfiltered opinions from a massive team of lady insiders. Then [they] make that data available to you." Okay, interesting concept.

Well it just so happened that StumbleUpon took me to a particular question on DonQ that I would take quite seriously. It simply asked Beatles or Stones? If you clicked the link, you can see that the overwhelming majority of the women polled (83%) preferred the Beatles over the Stones. You can also highlight each girl who answered and find their name, age, location, and a one sentence reason for their choice.

Good answer, Erika T., 23, of Miami, FL.

Forewarning: if you do not understand that this question is asking whether the women prefer The Beatles or The Rolling Stones, I recommend you do not continue to read.

Both sides had their women who didn't particularly care for either, or liked both, so these women just picked one because they didn't care, maybe slightly preferred one over the other, maybe they heard a song from the Beatles recently, or they received a dramatic sign from God.

God loves sending messages via baby.

I found that those who picked the Beatles had more who had a particular attachment to the band or had something at least slightly more insightful to say about them than "So good." Also, without Mick Jagger, apparently only 14% would have picked the Stones.

And now, the source of inspiration for this post, the one Rosie D. Oh, Rosie. Rosie, Rosie, Rosie. Shame on you. May the shame of a thousand has-been rock 'n roll legends rest squarely on your ignorant shoulders.

It's hard to think of a way to graphically portray shame.

Especially of the rock'n roll variety.

At first, when I read your answer, I thought that maybe you didn't finish your thought. Maybe you were halfway through writing your reason for picking The Stones and your house was demolished by a Buffalo stampede. They have those in Texas still, right?

Seriously. They are.

But no. I eventually realized the reason for your answer. The only reason you could have given the response, "Stones can be pretty," is that you actually thought the question was asking if you prefer beetles or stones. In your vacuous, cultureless brain, you read "Beatles or Stones" and thought you were being asked if you prefer scurrying, hard-shelled insects, or lifeless lumps of rock.

A tough choice we've all had to make.

Words cannot describe the shock I felt upon this realization. I can wrap my head around the fact that maybe upon first reading the question you may be confused. But then I imagine you sitting there, staring at the question. It's spelled out for you right there. The Beatles. Not Beetles. And when paired with the Stones. It's one of those questions everyone has been asked at least once, that or the popular variant of the question, "Beatles or Zeppelin?" According to Rosie D, that question is asking if you prefer bugs or blimps.

Why not both?

And she is 27 years old. I know, those bands have both been around much longer than 27 years. I know, it's not everybody's type of music. But both of them are such cultural icons, both made such an impact on music as a whole, and for the headbanging love of the rock'n roll gods if that question isn't asked ALL THE TIME!

Congratulations, Rosie. You are an idiot.

Rosie, even Ringo Starr is ashamed of you.

This is Ludacris

Yes. I know. Another stupid pun. Sorry.

Titles Are Hard

As I spent yet another night staring at my ceiling while sleep eluded me, I decided I would try and give this whole blogging thing a shot. Around 4:30 in the morning I grabbed an old composite notebook and furiously scribbled sentences that most people would interpret as pure incoherence.

These are actually the ones

that make the most sense.

In roughly fifteen minutes I already had two pages filled with ideas for topics I could write about. This made me feel excited. You see, I have a really bad habit of having great ideas that never make it past the light-bulb-turning-on-above-your-head stage. I have a "Eureka!" moment, and then convince myself that the idea is so awesome that there's no need for me to write it down. Not only do I refuse to store these bits of genius on any kind of permanent medium, but within five minutes of epiphanic discovery I am back to doing something utterly typical and mundane. Afterwards, be it a few hours, days, or weeks, something jogs my memory to where I can't exactly remember the idea; I can only remember how incredible it was supposed to be. I then spend all day trying to remember every detail. Since I spent at most five minutes on the initial idea formation, when I try and recall it I conjure up some bastardized monstrosity of what I am now convinced was the comedic equivalent to the cure for cancer.

I don't think that's quite right...

Also, T-Rex doctors wear cut-off lab coats

so their arms can fit.

But I digress. As indicated by the title of this post, once I decided to make this blog and had ideas about what I would write, I had to come up with a title for the blog itself. This proved infinitely harder than I anticipated for two reasons:

1) Most of my ideas were stupid

I probably should have given up here.

As you can see, I apparently had some obsession with including the word 'pun', even though I have absolutely zero ideas for any post even remotely related to puns.

2) My other ideas had already been taken.

Buttholes.

This was initially frustrating because it made me feel unoriginal. Every time I came up with a name, I checked to see if it had been taken. The first few were blogs that somebody had already made, wrote approximately five posts back in 2002, then abandoned. I think there should be an expiration date on blogs. No new posts in five years, you lose rights to the name.

The second frustration came next. I tried using some more obscure names, and found to my dismay that they were taken as well. However, when I typed in the address to see if the blog had any sort of success, I found this instead:

Gaping buttholes.

What the hell is that?! These people created a blog domain name and then never even made the actual blog! I began to take this personally. I imagine some asshole with inexplicable psychic powers whose sole purpose in life is to ruin every idea I have.

I didn't feel like drawing his body.

So we end up here, with the title 'Initially J'. After all my good ideas were exhausted, I wanted to call this 'Just J'. That stems from back in high school, and really would have been a small inside joke between myself and people who will likely never read this. But, of course, the psychic asshole beat me to the punch and had already taken it. Now I know his name, and it's Jason, and he thinks he's clever and calls himself J. That's not fair. My name is Jay, so J is pretty much the only nickname I can have that makes any sense. It doesn't even really count as a nickname, it's just a lazy way of spelling my actual name. How dare somebody else use my real name as a nickname?

Appropriate response.

So I vented my frustration to my mother, because I'm unemployed, live with my parents, and am pathetic like that. So after a few moments, she said, "What about 'Initially J'?" I thought for a moment. That could work. So I used that as a title, and while I sit here ranting about how hard it was for me to think up a name, I come full circle and realize that my new title is, in fact, a pun.